I am too fat for my French horn,too burdened on the lungsto inhale and exhale enough.I breathe just enoughbut want more, to breathe more.I am too fat for the swings at the parkwhere I whirled with my girlswhen they were younger.I am too fat for my wedding dressI wore when I was younger, too.There were jeans I slid on day after daybut I am too fat for my old jeans.They hung in my closet until dust caked the foldand I gave them away,bagged them with size eightsand tossed them straight in the bin.I don’t ride the swings or wear the dress,and the jeans went away with good will.And I shrug.I sit tight with my French hornand breathe and breathe just enough.I am too fat for my French horn,and I want more, to breathe more.

I have always said this—
I love the change of seasons.
And I mean it.
But just now I am clinging to Summer
by its ankles as it pivots toward the door
and leaves the room.
Wait! Don't go yet!
I call as I tighten my grip around its shin bone,
and it pulls me across the floor,
bunching up the summer rug beneath me,
the green grass, snapdragons and sprawled out oregano now in folds.
It's about to drag me through
crunchy leaves and spiked acorns and withering herbs.
So I plant my feet flatly against the door frame,
knees locked and jaw set,
as Summer shrugs and shakes me off
with a fling of its foot.
And empty handed, I reach out with splayed fingers,
and I shout one last time,
Wait! Not yet!
Just one more day.

Jean turned the corner and stepped down gingerly from the curb, letting
his stronger knee bear the weight before allowing his age-worn one to
manage the cobblestones. He winced in anticipation as he took the next
step, but today seemed a good day, and he crossed the street to the café
without any more strain than warranted a few winded groans.

It was early, and the shops were just opening. A few grazers cased
the fruit stand, one or two aimed for the bread shop and Jean set his
course for one of the empty tables on the sidewalk. He set his jacket
down in an empty chair and eased into the one beside it, and he exhaled
with the sound of a man with weary bones.

When the server delivered his croissant and coffee, he watched how
adept she was at holding the silver tray with one hand, and how she kept
it perfectly level without a sign of trembling. “I’d have that thing
listing south like a steam ship,” he thought.

“Thank you, dear,” he said, and with a shaky hand, he dipped a knife
in the jam and spread it on the bread. He dropped a rock of sugar into
his cup, dribbled in some cream and stirred. The rattling the spoon made
against the ceramic launched him backward to when his hand was as
steady as the hand of any fresh-faced kid, when he was full of the
future.

There was a time when Jean could stir cream into anything with the
smoothness of light, and the custard he produced was the best of all the
cafés on the block. He turned raw ingredients into delectable treats
that people stood in line just to sample, and each bite was an
indulgence.

Every single layer of his opera cake touched the tongue with
pleasure. Each bite of his profiteroles melted as quickly as the cream
inside them. And a taste of his apple tart was like home on a cold
evening in February.

Jean ran a tight pastry kitchen, and he was proud of his craft.
“You’re not making dessert here,” he’d say to his apprentices. “You’re
forming bite-sized pieces of art, and if you form them well, you’ll have
the entire village lining up at your door.” “People know the difference
between a strawberry tart made with no feeling and one made with the
art and soul of a craftsman,” he would say. And if a boy who didn’t mind
his advice set emotionless tarts into the pastry case, Jean would ship
him off to a competitor. “Go make your slop under someone else’s shop
sign, then.”

Jean took a bite of the croissant and watched as just enough flaky
crumbs fell to the plate. There was nothing worse than a croissant that
collapsed like a paper crane, and this one was done well. He leaned back
and slurped from his cup, and he let out a satisfied sigh. Art is a
good croissant, he thought.